


Sunrise in Aries

by colberry



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Car Accidents, M/M, Stage Personas Are Real People Too, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colberry/pseuds/colberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not your fault, Kou – ” Akira swears, watching the vodka disappear, watching Kouyou watch Aoi.  <br/>Don’t forget to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunrise in Aries

_Car crash flames are in his mouth._

_“Retrograde amnesia – could be temporary – 60% chance of full recovery.”_

_His head is almost sliced open, hands nailed to the steering wheel, the blood is trickling and Yuu is strangled in tango with the seatbelt._

_“ – doesn’t remember the riffs – ”_

_But he’s breathing._

_“ – caused by blunt trauma to the head – he’s lucky.”_

_He never believed in God, but damn does he start thanking him, whispers hoarsely among the ashes and the broken instruments and the short gasps of Takanori in the backseat who still finds breath to curse – “Keep breathing, Yuu.”_

_He’s a lucky boy._

_“It’s not your fault – ” Yutaka and Takanori whisper later as they pull him aside, shielding him from watching Aoi fumble with the chords._

_Lucky._

_“ – it’s not your fault, Kou.” Akira swears, watching the vodka disappear, watching Kouyou watch Aoi._

_But at least he’s breathing._

  
September lolls its head and Uruha can’t bear the thought that frost has slathered across his eyelids.  Fingers shake in the frigid lips of Aoi who kisses each knuckle, roves over each miniscule bone.  The clock keeps rewinding, no matter how many times he gnaws at the secondhand, pushes that damn arrow forward, but the past has come to settle in his lungs – and this beautiful entity on his knees before him is too perfect to dismiss as a flicker of yesterday. 

Aoi moves his lips along the valleys of his knuckles, snow-lapped skin meeting his rose-touched flesh, and his eyes catch Uruha’s hesitance, “What’s wrong?” 

The words are muffled against his hand, but Uruha hears him all the same – always has because when Aoi speaks, you _listen_.  Random slices of life, odd quibbles, each declaration of love-love-love ( _but he --)._  

The tenor lilt of his voice, always laced with a trace of amusement _(always sliding across his ribs, he had always drowned in the elder’s octaves before he – )_ now felt warbled and warped, but even this cheap imitation was better than the previous wisps that had clouded his mind and played with his eyelashes. 

So, when Aoi pauses his ministrations, when his lips _(that have redeemed the glinting piercing that curls around them)_ leave Uruha’s soul – the younger snatches the other man’s hand tight, feels his black nails stabbing through each pore

_Because they are on borrowed time and he might –_

“Uruha, you’re acting strange.”  They’re sitting on the roof of his apartment building, the cold burn of fall scratching his esophagus.  Aoi tilts his head, the brown scarf he drooped lazily around his neck shifting with the subtle movement, and Uruha closes his eyes because the sun is biting him through the silver adorning Aoi’s mouth which bears a concerned frown.  Still, he squeezes Aoi’s hand tighter.  He wants _this_ – no matter the faults in the interpretation. 

Aoi is squeezing back, an attempt to bring the guitarist back to him _(but no, Uruha’s right here, it’s Aoi who is – )_ , lithe fingers fitting into the grooves and calluses of the fawn-haired man’s grip.  Uruha remembers that Aoi has calluses too, ones that are so rough that sometimes caresses feel jagged and memories of blistered fingers from copper strings sometimes override any anecdote of gentle-love.  But now, Aoi’s hands are smooth, cradling Uruha’s war-torn fingers and half-bitten nails like a dear and precious thing. 

“Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Uruha allows his eyes to open, but stares at Aoi’s scarf rather than his pleading eyes – he knows the irises will be noir instead of burnt sienna, and he doesn’t think he could take seeing such a thing – and the younger can imagine how warm the threads are.  

He remembers poking the rhythm guitarist in the ribs, smirk at the ready when Aoi defended his knitting skills while wrapping the scarf around his neck in defense.  He had teased, playfully prodding, but Aoi kept his smile hidden and had the gall to look affronted when Uruha tried to reach out and grab the chocolate-colored fabric.  Now, Uruha can imagine the wool feeling scratchy against his skin, a comfortable kind of irritation.  _Wasn’t that what Aoi was? (used to be – )_

Aoi’s thumb is stroking the back of Uruha’s palm and the younger man has to restrain himself from jerking away with a shriek of _“you’re the one who’s not ‘right’!”_ or delving headfirst into those sinewy arms.  Instead, he shivers and whispers in a soft exhale, “Do you think butterflies exist?”

The elder man pauses, hesitance leaking into his jaw, making it tighten as he loosens his grip, “Uruha, what are you – ”  
  
“ -- Just,” Uruha swallows the wetness in his throat because _he already knows_ , “Just answer me, please.”  
  
Aoi’s hand feels numb in his, fingers are loosening and the spark of his lip ring seems to flicker out of focus, “Of course they exist, Uruha.  You see them all the time.”

Aoi’s hand falls out of his grip, his scarf seems to lose the perception of warmth and Uruha feels his entire face start to twist into agony.  Because he _knew_ , but dammit – he just had to try. 

Because _his Aoi_ would have smiled, grinned like the clouds were disappearing and time was nothing.

Because _his Aoi_ had the same scars as his own upon each finger, rough maladies that he had apologized for over and over each time they scraped across his cheek.

Because _his Aoi_ had his lips free of a piercing, no longer needing to desperately hide and rebel.

Because _his Aoi_ would have turned to him and said, _“Only if you believe in them.”_

Because _his Yuu_ had always called him “ _Kouyou_ ”.

Slowly, he turns from the perplexed countenance of _this_ Aoi, and watches September loll against the cumulus clouds.  The elder man remains silent, his frame fading and flickering, the clock’s secondhand finally droning forward.  The apparition still watches Kouyou, watches the moist glaze to his eyes and wonders if he answered incorrectly.  But he concludes that he will stay, if only to redeem himself if the topic of butterflies comes up once more. 

Kouyou crosses his arms, Yuu’s stolen scarf tickling his knuckles and he buries the warmth inside him – the lingering scent of Bvlgari embracing each of his trembling ribs.  He can almost grasp onto Yuu’s smile, but knows he only has those polaroids in knick-knack frames on his dresser to remember it by.  His mind can supply him only with imitation – his gaze absently notes the fading figure at his side – and such a perfect thing could never be imagined by will alone. 

Stillness is settling in his bones and Kouyou is tired.  September is sleeping and Aoi is fading, fading.

And Yuu is not here.

He can’t help but softly say to the sky, “Breathe, Yuu.”

He can’t help but to let a tear escape when Aoi asks softly, “Who's Yuu?”


End file.
